Once Upon Esme
by twilightartisan
Summary: Esme, taunted and tormented, believes hope to be at the helm of her problematic life - directing it and feeding from her pain.  What finally pushes her over the edge?  Can she find happiness in a new life?   Canon, Pre/post Carlisle; Suggestive/Lime
1. Of Demons and Acceptance

**A/N: I do not own the characters in Twilight. All credits are due Stephanie Meyers. My stories are only my thoughts or twists on missing pieces of the saga or alternate directions to the original works.**

**Reader reviews are welcomed and encouraged, good or bad—as long as not flame. I respect all cultures, rights, and positions regarding sex, religion, politics, and other. My stories will, as I see fit in the plotline, reflect different viewpoints and references. No intent is ever made to discriminate, but only show my opinion based on a particular story line.**

**Happy reading!**

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><p><strong>CHAPTER I: Of Demons and Acceptance<strong>

**(Esme's POV)**

_Hope is held by a fleeting breath. Hope draws you near with its sweet voice then abandons you to hollow solitude and pain._

It was past dusk, long past dinner—sitting cold and uneaten on the table—when it began. Like a chapter repeated, over and again, I knew what was coming, as the demonic figure flared through the front door, sputtering in rage of punishments for indiscretions and offenses never committed. I remained steadfast to the demon's rant, its reddened eyes blazing into mine, and began to pray for God's shelter to the coming storm.

"I'll teach you not to disgrace and humiliate me woman! I know what you do while I'm away from the house. Whore!" it seethed—blowing a foul stench into my face. It was quick and there was no lull between words and action, as my punishment was brutal—strike after strike, kick after kick. I stopped counting, stopped hoping it would cease, and felt my body turn to stone with icy numbness, as I was dragged by my hair up the splintered staircase towards the bedroom. The cool floor offered little comfort to my pain as each step bounced a new bruise, but I dared not make a sound. Even though my accuser's words were unfounded, I dared not speak in defense.

The demon was unyielding in delivering its twisted sentence—evil and uncaring. I could no longer anticipate the force of each strike nor recoil from its blows. Instead, I stilled and curled into my body, tightly drawing my knees to my chest and attempted to protect the beautiful life which was growing within me—my little light, my hope in this world. The bruises of the demon's assault didn't matter, as long as I could shelter my little light.

It wasn't a faceless, nameless shadow to me; the demon had a name. A name I'd once trusted and taken for my own. As a blurred memory took shape, I began reliving a day when I was filled with so much joy. I could remember myself standing in hope of a life filled with trust and love, happiness and peace—fulfilled by the blessing of children and grandchildren.

_I, Charles Evenson, take you, Esme Anne Platt, to be my wedded wife. It is with sincerity and happiness I enter my new life with you. I pledge before God, with all of which I am, to love, keep, and honor you, in all circumstance, for as long as we both shall live._

_I, Esme Anne Platt, take you, Charles Evenson, to be my wedded husband. It is with sincerity and happiness I enter my new life with you. As you have pledged your love and honor unto me, so do I pledge before God to give of my life and all I am to you, submitting to you in confidence and promising my love, support, and obedience. I will seek to care and support you for all circumstance and shall honor my place as your wife for as long as we both shall live._

Yes, my demon had a name. It possessed—possessed was appropriate—the same surname as I now did. Evenson. Charles Evenson, my husband, my demon.

This was our house, our home—our future together. Encouraged by my parents, we anchored ourselves to this house and to the area—a quiet, small town on the outskirts of Columbus, Ohio. Despite my initial protests to go west, we decided to live here in happiness and raise our family.

This house is where, after my parents died, shortly following Charles' return from the war, I found solace and peace. It was a refuge for me, and my husband was the only figure in whom I'd sought comfort after my loss. He'd been so caring and tender—my rock and my anchor during that time. I felt hope that his demon had slipped away, never to return. My hope was, however, short lived.

His true nature was always lurking under the surface—a dark, soulless heart waiting to come forward and pounce. I'd silently endured his cruelties so much and so often, I'd come to expect them and no longer hoped for a happy life. Charles Evenson no longer cared about me; he didn't love me unless he was torturing me. I realized, finally, he truly cared for one thing and one thing only, set aside from himself and his anger—his swill, his bottle from which he got his manhood, bottled and peddled by the devil himself.

I'd lived the same nightmare with him many times, but always made excuses for my husband's behavior or, perhaps rather, my inadequacies. After his outbursts, he'd always be apologetic and promise a new tomorrow—filled with endearing commitment and peace. I'd sought and trusted hope many times in the past years, but hope always failed me, goaded me into staying.

I was carrying a child now, our child within me—a child conceived from another rage driven frenzy and night of torment. Yet, in his consistent intoxicated bliss, I'd not told Charles about our beautiful creation—doubtful he would have cared. I vowed, then and there, if I survived the night, to bring my little light safely into the world—to protect my child from the demon. As God was my witness, I was determined to find way.

"What are you thinking woman?" he said between kicks. "Imaging I will stop. Believe me in this, you do not deserve my consideration, my grace in stopping." He continued to taunt and ridicule me, watching me curled on the bedroom carpet; but too soon he noticed the inviting bed.

Although I could sense he was near an end to his tirade—his words more slurred, his thoughts starting to muddle, his physical rage less frequent—he was still strong and began dragging me with him, stumbling towards the bed. I had no strength left with which to fight him. My inner voice screamed—please no, please don't do this. I knew the look on his face, but I couldn't, dare not, utter a sound. I could only turn further into myself, and pray for God to protect my baby. Knowing what was to still come that night, all I could do was close my eyes and hold to the thought of my little light—repeating over and over to myself, I'll protect us little one, I'm here for you, we'll survive this. I let acceptance close my eyes and surrendered to what was to come.

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><p><strong>AN: Hope you enjoyed! Please continue on to see how Esme sees hope as her adversary, but knows she must still bargain with it to find a better life.**


	2. Dare Hope Receive Another Chance

**CHAPTER II: Dare Hope Receive Another Chance**

**(Esme's POV)**

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><p><em>I was happy—once. I was special—once. I was hopeful—once. Hope would always, however, let me down.<em>

Hope, I wordlessly spat its name into the dank air, staring at the tiny creases in our bedroom wallpaper. Hope was a sanctuary in a dark moment—a moment held in the unending madness of my pain and despair. It was an unbearable curse in the face of reality—a cruel word, a cruel being.

My reality was my nightmare, and hope was a liar destined to usher a new day, to taunt me and remind me of my pain. Hope basked in the light of my yearning for morning to arrive, and laughed at my tears when the night turned to nightmare.

Escape? I'd thought of escaping this life many times; but hope held me captive. Thoughts and plans of an escape from my demon were a ruse in the night, painted for me by hope, before it chained me to another day. It was a cruel ruse meant to keep me perpetually tied in Hell and mask my scars from others. Hope was often wicked.

Perversely and confused, I knew I must still entertain hope, trust in it, if only for my little light. Perhaps I should offer hope something in return for our deliverance, our escape, from this torment. Even hope must have a price. What though?

Hope had its own body and it was determined to commit me to agony, to tear me apart, balancing the good and bad sides of its character. I began wondering why I listened to the gilded lies of hope if I had so little trust in it. Was I worth so little to myself to endure my debasing life, its dark torture? Was I so dependent and broken to accept my life? Did hope truly bind me to my life? Perhaps hope's existence was to taunt me with its cruel gestures of possibility, then take everything away, enjoying my pain. Perhaps this is how hope survived, feeding on me. Yet, again, I needed to trust hope one more time.

I was bargaining within myself, accepting defeat, only to rebound with renewed trust in hope. I was so confused. Suddenly I felt my little light kick, and looked down to touch the spot. As a mother, I knew I must to allow hope a chance, if only to redeem itself and save us, if only for the protection of my little light. I needed to follow hope one more time for a new tomorrow.

I quietly traced my hand down the edge of our bed and into the dusty fingers of first light feeling for my slip. Brushing its cool silk I bunched it into my hand and pulled it close. It was all I had left from last night; everything else was in shreds—their strewn and tattered remains a reminder of the wicked monster asleep beside me. The torn pieces served to darken my heart and remind me of my condemned life, while the bloody trail on the carpet bore witness to my nightmare. The sight brought me to the edge, making me shiver and again pull into myself. My life was a muddle of one pain after another, but I had to allow hope to direct me to the path of salvation and security. I felt so lost and alone.

Silently I nestled my face in the silk and cried—muted sobs which no one would hear. I prayed for answers and I prayed to the false idol of hope. When I lifted my head in a time, I saw a tiny, yellow sparrow prancing on the dawn-kissed window sill—something so sweet, so innocent just beyond my reach. Its eyes searching the meadow for something, flitting its head back and forth; suddenly, it took flight. I saw hope in its eyes! "Wait; take us with you," my soul silently cried into the dimness. "Please take us with you, carry us away. You have hope!" My wordless cries, however, went unanswered as I watched it disappear.

I put my head down; I felt so cold inside, barren from the warm soul that once viewed life as something special. I wanted to run, run and never turn back. I had to run and never turn back. I had to give in to hope.

In one fell swoop of final determination and pent anger, I forced myself up, tugged on my stained, crumpled slip, and gingerly slid from the bed. I quietly dressed and gathered what few things I had, tossing them into a broken satchel, while continuously watching for signs of movement. My husband's wallet on the floor didn't go unnoticed and I took what I'd need to escape this life, feeling no remorse. Glancing only at my reflection in a broken mirror, I vowed I'd never return.

Padding downstairs, I grabbed, near the hall tree, tangible proof I was once happy and whole—my Bible—and walked into the misty morning giving hope a chance to change the future and offer us a new beginning. The monster which had been beside me upstairs never heard or offered or pursuit; unmoving after a night of hell—dead to the world again in a drunken slumber.

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><p><strong>AN: Chapter III brings unites Esme and hope for a brief period, only to shatter her world again. Read on!**


	3. On the Winge of Hope

**CHAPTER III: On the Wings of Hope**

**(Esme's POV)**

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><p><em>A picture paints a thousand words, but hope can destroy it with one stroke of its brush<em>

I didn't know what path my life was going to take, but I knew I'd sent myself in the right direction. Hope was finally my friend. I could finally breathe in the scent of life and feel the heavy burden of worry begin to lift.

After I walked into the morning light on that day when I had only hope to trust, leaving my life of agony behind, I hitched a ride from the end of our driveway to a local rest stop, Frankie's. It was from there I used the rest stop's telephone and called a friend, Grace Anders, who lived on the south side of Columbus. She was never fond of Charles, and I'm sure she suspected his abuse of me more than once.

Grace and her husband drove to Frankie's and took me to their three bedroom, one bath home—with its shabby wooden shakes and over grown trees, but trimmed and filled with love. I thanked God and hope for such gracious friends as I sat in their back seat. The cracked, warm licorice leather cradled me in invitation to relax, as if enveloped by relief, and enjoy the cool breeze of the open window. Every worn telephone pole and shambled shack looked like grand symbols leading me into happiness, and nothing could destroy my mood or remove the smile from my face. I was free; we were safe.

I stayed with the Anders for several days before making my decision on where I'd go—what I'd do with my life and how I'd protect my little light. I must have looked a sight at first and Grace made sure I was seen by her local physician—she was always the mother. They made sure my time was occupied with laughter and warmth; truly angels were sent to rescue me. Hope was again my friend, my savior.

After hours lost in thought and since I had always wanted to move west, my cousin Helen immediately came to mind. Helen had spent summers with my family for many years when I was young, as she had no siblings and her father had died in a mining accident. Her mother, Aunt Bess, used to say we were sewn together at the hip—she wasn't far from the truth. We were inseparable! We biked, climbed trees, and new every frog by name on my parents farm. Helen and I would often wear the same dress and pretend we were twins. Truly, we were meant somewhere to have been sisters, not cousins.

I called Helen, her married name now Chandler, and we talked for an eternity. Charles allowed me little contact with family and friends, so it was like opening a window into another life as we reminisced and planned. It was only three days and I was on a train to Wisconsin—that simple. Hope was sketching a new picture in my life, guiding me to happiness. I remember smiling the entire trip, thinking about my, our, future; single mother, no job, little money. Yet my musings didn't frighten me or dampen my smile. No, I would tell the public my husband had died in the war; after all, I had wished it often enough, why not make it a fabricated truth. As to how I'd survive and support us, I knew I could acquire a teaching certificate in the small area where Helen lived. I knew laws were changing for teachers in the city, but they were still in demand with less controls in many areas off the beaten path of colleges and universities.

Yes, I'd be a teacher and a mother. My little light kept nudging me and I beamed; 'We're almost there,' I thought to him/her—who cared! I knew we were being delivered into a beautiful destiny. I settled back in my coach seat, closed my eyes, and let my thoughts drift in peace—no nightmares, no demon, only peace.

The travel was easy, as easy as a train could allow, and time seemed to pass rather quickly. My thoughts drifted in and around memories and it seemed to speed the clock. I was soon watching landmarks pass which were like signposts pointing to my providence.

I started remembering the holiday trips to Aunt Bess's. If my father had gotten his way, we would have traveled there by horse and buggy, but instead he always turned it into an excursion by train. I was about 12 when my father acquired his first car, a Ford Model T. He'd managed a good crop year and had some stock wealth which was calling him to luxury. Oh, we thought we were rich, but daddy worked hard to get us what he called 'a tin horse on wheels." We crammed ourselves into the heavy, black painted vehicle and turned our trips into grand adventures every time we went somewhere. I could still recall the smell of the hot metal engine and the slight clang of the overhead canopy with every bump in the road.

A slight jolt from the train brought me back to reality. We were slowing and the train began pulling into Pine Hollow Station, as the clacking wheels ground near a halt. I gathered my few things and found I was still giggling to myself over my stroll down memory lane. It felt good to laugh; it felt good to be happy.

It was near noon and, as I disembarked, I began immediately looking for Helen. There she was standing on the platform in a blue gingham dress and braids. Oh my, did she still wear braids! She looked like her mother, Aunt Bess, even down to the worn, soil packed shoes. I knew she was mulling through the many faces looking for me, when I called out to her. Helen canted her head in my direction and the sun bounced off her honey and caramel hair—yet another likeness to me. Her eyes, however, were ice blue and mine were emerald green. I suppose we had to have some differences, but just a few! We ran to each other and embraced as if we'd become one person. It was a moment for which neither of us wished to initiate an end.

"Excuse me, Ma'am, may I take your bags," rumbled a deep, drawled voice. Helen stepped back with the still wide-eyed happiness of memory and greeting, and introduced me to the man standing at her side. "This is Wade my husband. Wade Chandler, I'd like you to meet my cousin Esme Evenson." I tilted my head up to greet his lofty height and starred into a beaming smile. "Pleased to meet you sir," I stuttered. His response a quick, "It's Wade ma'am, and I'm pleased to finally meet you." Helen simply giggled at my reaction—must have happened a lot.

Helen and Wade drove me to their home, nestled against a glade of pines where I could hear running water in the distance. They introduced me to their children, Anne Marie and John David—most well-behaved and inquisitive. It wasn't long and I was settling into my new home and my new future. Things had moved fast and yet I saw them in slow motion, trying to savor every moment of joy. 'Hope,' I prayed silently into the air, 'thank you for delivering us into this new life. You've rekindled my faith that there is a tomorrow.'

I'd far too long lived a nightmare and this was perfection and happiness, speckled with faith and warmth, and swathed in a velvet cloth of love. Growing tired from my travels, I excused myself early from the evening and went to my room. I was still smiling—was that possible? 'We're home my little light, we're really home,' I sighed as my last thought of the day let me lay down my head and drift into splendid wonder.

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><p><strong>AN: Chapter IV will bring the love, happiness, and the bright joy Esme has been awaiting into her world. **

_**Please review. Your constructive thoughts and opinions are welcome and encouraging. Hope your enjoying the story!**_


	4. Past, Present, and Future

**CHAPTER IV: Past, Present, and Future**

**(Esme's POV)**

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><p><em>The stakes of hope's game are high. Sometimes you win and sometimes you lose.<em>

I'd lived with Helen and Wade for nearly six months—laughing, dodging the occasional alarm that my clandestine whereabouts would be leaked, and simply enjoying life. I had come to believe hope was a blessing and my life had been opened to a new chapter. Charles had looked for me, probably pressured by his drunken friends, but he sought me only as a possession, not with concern and love. His searches were half-hearted and empty; I simply no longer existed. I didn't trust most of my friends with knowledge of my location because I knew they'd petition me back to the arms of my demon. They didn't see Charles in the same light, seeing only his public face. Very few of my friends, like Grace, had ever seen Charles lose control. The entire town could blather to the wind for all I cared and uphold Charles' loss—holding him in his time of sorrow. I was hidden now, and I was safe. Hope had cast a veil of secrecy around me and I was thankful for its help.

It was near time to bring my little light into this world and, although I felt the need to move on and go further north at some point for both work and added safety, I decided to remain with Helen and her family until after my baby was born. I enjoyed playing with their children and had managed to burn through every book in their house—yearning for more. Reading the adventures of others and dreaming was like drug to me; but not one to alleviate pain, rather bolster happiness. There were also a great many books on decorating and homemaking lying about, which piqued my interest. I began to dabble on paper, making designs and experimenting with silly sketched ideas. Building and design was work held for men, of course, but I still liked tinkering with the shapes and results.

Helen agreed to go into town—near Milwaukee—and bring back some new written adventures for me to devour. I suppose I was like a kid again; wanting to touch and experience new things, dreaming anew. I hadn't been allowed to dream in the vile grip of Charles, so I was blazing with new passions for my new life. My choice to stay in place at the secluded, nature cloaked house was wise, however, as I went into labor a week earlier than anticipated.

Helen, who had taken the children with her, was still out looking for my adventures in print and Wade was working—a carpenter by trade. I felt the first twinge of what was about to happen as I got up from a rest on the creaky porch rocker. It was more like an echoing pain, starting fast and intense but gradually lessening. I took in deep gulps of fresh, damp air and slowly sat back down. I knew this day would come; I was ready to hold my little light and turn the page on yet another chapter. I knew I could do this and I continued to deeply breathe, steadily rocking the chair—swaying with its motion. My hands eventually grew stiff and my knuckles reddened at the pressure I was applying to the old rocker, hoping someone would return soon.

As the sun began disappearing behind the glade, I found I was rocking a bit faster to the rhythm of each new pain. My thoughts drifted in and out of different memories—some good, some bad. It seemed I was internally trying to refocus myself, perhaps escape. Memories of the demon, of course, surfaced. Seeing his rage and accusation in my mind only served to heighten my pain. How did I marry something so evil? Why didn't I see his true nature?

I'd dreamed like a fairy tale princess about my perfect husband before meeting Charles; I even thought I'd met him once as young girl. Soon thoughts of the glistening, blond hair of what looked like a Greek statue, made me smile. It wasn't so much his appearance—although handsome wasn't in a league with his exquisiteness; it was his touch, his smell, his feel, his grace, his disposition, and so much more spooled into one being. My heart heaved a sigh at the memory and I let it take me back in time, away from the demon reflection, away from my pain, to a place where I was a simple, dreaming young girl with a crush on the man trying to heal her.

_It was late fall and I could hear them talking in the corridor through the cracked open door. "Doctor, this next patient is Esme Platt. He parents brought her to St. Cecil this morning, a day after she took a nasty fall from climbing a tree with her cousin. She's complaining of symptoms which indicate a broken leg; however, there is a great deal of swelling present. She doesn't appear to have any other injuries based on the parental report. In concern, should we set her up with the new x-ray instrument which arrived last week? The Edwards project allows us to test it on varying age groups and not just military personnel."_

_Silence prevailed for a moment and then I heard it, a voice so angelic it made me tingle. "Yes, Agnes, go ahead and authorize an x-ray with this one. It can't hurt anything; she's so young. If it shows a good view of the break, providing there is one, all the better for an ideal set and complete recovery with no residual or permanent disability."_

_Dazed and wordless, I was still tingling when he, oh dear Adonis—did I say that to myself—stepped through the exam room door. I'd read a lot of mythology and the doctor was straight from the pages of ancient history. If his voice was angelic, his smell was heavenly. I felt light headed and he immediately looked both concerned and sympathetically tolerant._

"_Good afternoon Miss Platt, I'm Dr. Cullen," he said with a simple nod and warm smile. "I understand you fell from a tree. Can you tell me about it? What were you doing and any details relative to your fall?" He kept staring at me, waiting for me to speak._

"_I, uh, I, it's E-E-Esme." I foolishly kept looking at the floor, like the young child I was, only stealing a glance when I thought he wasn't looking._

_He tittered, "Okay, Miss Esme Platt, Can you tell me about your fall? Is it only your leg? Did you do any other damage or hit your head?" He was even more amused when I again didn't respond. I couldn't respond. I didn't know how to move my lips, and surely no sound would come out._

_Finally, "It's Esme, just Esme." Again, soft, lilting laughter. Would he please not do that to me! I was falling apart and making a fool of myself._

"_Esme," he placed his hand gently on my arm. Sweet fire and ice! His touch was cold, but not painful; it was more like a delicious flare and made me wish, although I didn't understand why, for him to keep his hand in place. "Why don't you tell me about what happened while I work? I need to examine your leg. I want you to tell me, being truthful, how and where it hurts. If it's broken I need to know the direction of the break so I may correctly stabilize the bone. Now, you fell out of a tree?"_

"_Yes," I suddenly found my voice, although it betrayed my age—a child. "I was daring my cousin to climb higher with me to see a nest. Apparently the tree limb wasn't as strong as I'd thought and it gave way. It fell hard, and I fell with it. Luckily, my cousin hadn't made it up as far as I had and she quickly ran back to the farm to get my father. When he first took me home, he thought it was only a bad sprain, but it continued to swell." I stopped to take a breath, and the heavenly scent hit me again—like warm, inviting leather. "My mother insisted we come here when she saw the swelling and the pain was getting worse. Our neighbors drove an hour so I could see you," I hastily added. Why did I just say that? Again, he seemed amused._

"_I see," he whispered while examining my leg. He twisted my leg just a little to the side and my world started to spin—not in a good way. I nearly jumped from the exam table. "My apologies Esme; I didn't mean to cause you more pain. I'm nearly certain, even without an x-ray, the leg is broken. The significant swelling is a concern, but considering the area of the injury—closer to your knee where there are many soft tissues—swelling can be more intense." He checked to make sure I really hadn't hit my head and had a concussion before he spoke again. "It seems that it's just your leg today. I'm going to speak with your parents and the nurse will be back in a moment to see to you safely to your x-ray."_

_I just bobbled my head and swallowed hard, both in resignation to my pain and so I didn't say something silly and dim. If I'd ever dreamed of a man I would someday marry, he was personified in front of me. I was in love before I'd even set eyes on him. My thoughts were giddy and those of a silly, youthful girl, but I couldn't place all my chagrin on my youth. I was truly wishing to be swept away by him and into the lovely arms of destiny, although I didn't know why._

_An hour passed, and with the x-ray complete, I was laying on the exam bed waiting for my strikingly beautiful and unique doctor to return. I heard the old wooden door creak and a moment later my face lit with happiness as I took in his lovely face. "Miss," he started then stopped himself looking quizzically at me, but also with something more. "Esme." The word was more like music; no, a symphony. "You're x-ray confirms a break, but it is a clean break. We can easily set and brace it. Of course, you won't be climbing any trees for weeks to come, but you will make a full recovery just in time for spring."_

_I caught his eyes with mine and we just looked at each other for several moments. "Esme?" he questioned. "Did you hear me?" I nodded, but I was more interested in watching his every move, thinking of how his voice sounded so peaceful. My father had a lovely voice, and I compared the memory of his voice to the doctor who stood in the room with me. There was definitely a likeness, but Dr. Cullen's—I'd remembered his name!—held a depth so much more than my age could allow me to understand._

"_I'll call the nurse back in to give you some morphine and then we'll see to that leg young lady. Rest easy for a few moments." It was with those words he left the room again, but not my heart. I later realized he'd touched not only my heart but also my soul. His memory, even though I was but a child, would make me compare every other man in my life to him, consciously or not._

_It was only after the medication had taken effect that he returned. I was groggy and feeling light, but I could still feel the iciness of his touch as he set and braced my leg. My parents took me home soon after and I never again saw my mythological doctor but for in my dreams._

Darkness had descended in full curtain while I was reliving the sweet memory. A tense burst of pain, as well as a voice—familiar but foggy—called my name and curbed my wish to drift back into my musing spirit. The voice was asking me something, 'okay … hear me.' It was distant at first and I struggled to concentrate on its location. I felt arms cradling me and the soft swish of air as I was moved about to a new location. God no, Charles had found me! No, I argued within myself, the arms were too kind, too gentle. Slowly, the pieces began to fall into place and I clawed at reality with yet another hot flame of pain fracturing my world.

The first vivid image I had was Helen kneeling beside me, looking very worried but also happy. Happy? I was in my room—Helen's home with her family. The pieces of my bleary puzzle began to fasten and I shuddered through another intense pain. The pain! What was happening? Oh my God, my baby, my little light; I realized where the pain was anchored. It was all I could do to breathe and maintain my finger-hold on self-possession.

"Esme? Esme I'm here. You're in labor. This is it, the baby is almost here. We don't have time to get a doctor, but you're doing just fine. It'll be over soon. Try to breathe. Do you understand; can you hear me?" I could only nod my head in response to her raised key voice.

I could hear her talking to someone near the doorway and realized it must be Wade. He sounded nervous and uptight. Apparently Helen was giving him instructions and I laughed inside myself at the thought of his reaction to all of this. Men, after all, weren't the best midwives unless the subject consumed hay or pranced in a corral—fidgety and pacing about this would be to say the least about Wade.

Helen was whirling about me and about the room in a frenzy of activity, making preparations for the delivery of my little light. It was almost surreal. I'd paced into my own world when this began to elude the pain and I'd rather liked it there; now I wasn't granting my full attention to anything one thing. Another jolt of fiery pain edged me closer to amending my illusory state of mind.

Helen was streaming nippy orders and poking me to get my attention. "Esme, listen. Listen! Concentrate Esme. Push, push. Good, again. Again." I clutched the bedding as if it would tear itself free and run screaming from the room. "Again, Esme. Push." I could do this; I couldn't do this. I was losing feeling and growing numb. "Again Esme, with everything you have left."

"One more big one Esme," she barked me to alertness. "Okay, easy. Slow, slow, another push, small, one more." I had no idea how much time had elapsed, but I collapsed back on the welcoming pillows and closed my eyes with a heavy sigh of breath. The pain had ceased. My ears were then charmed for the first time by a sound so beautiful it echoed in my soul. The sound came from nowhere and everywhere; it was a part of me.

Some minutes later Helen came to the edge of the bed carrying small moving bundle of white. "Esme Anne," she broadly smiled, "I'd like you to meet the miracle you just brought into this world, your son." She leaned down and nestled the bundle in my arms, warm and snug. Blue eyes looked up at me and I was from that moment forever rooted to his world. My son, my little light in this world; my hope and my reality. I, again, silently thanked hope for its grace.

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><p><strong>AN: Chapter V finds Esme with a small dilemma—she's not chosen a name for her new little light. Hope will continue to further goad Esme into happiness, before it is soon taken and tossed into nothingness in Chapter VI.**


	5. What's in a Name?

**CHAPTER V: What's in a Name?**

**(Esme's POV)**

_What are little boys made of? Snips and Snails and Puppy Dog Tails._

Daylight was breaking through my window and I exhaled with happiness. I was content. Looking at in the straw-woven bassinet beside me, I saw beyond it and into a new life of peace.

What had it taken to get to this moment? Who cared? I was—we were—here; the moment had arrived. The memories of torture, fear, and despair all seemed to drift away. They were taken from me and replaced with joy. Hope had brought me here! I had trusted hope one more time and it hadn't let me down. "Thank you," I whispered in the air.

I stretched my aching muscles a bit and my beautiful boy stirred, kicking his legs—baby—baby—my baby—name? I hadn't thought of a name! I hadn't named my baby! Sweet forgetfulness, my baby didn't have a name. What mother doesn't have a name for her baby?

My little light peeked over the fresh linen blanket in his bassinet and curled his tiny fingers on its edge, as if in forgiveness of my blunder. Hours had passed since his birth, but I felt as if he'd been in my world forever. I was inexplicably bound to his heart and I didn't care how. In his few hours of life, he was exacting and dependent, but without cruel and evil expectations—unlike others who had trampled me; he needed me, truly and delightfully needed—a first for my life. I would do everything within my power to care and nurture my cooing charge. He was the answer to my prayers—answered by hope and orchestrated by God's hand.

I sat on the edge of the crumpled sheet bed, tracing its trimmed border with my finger, and mulled different names in my head for yet more time, bouncing and eliminating one after another. I tried to concentrate, but my thoughts were inundated with so many things. I shook my head at my indecision and sighed.

Memories I'd sifted through during my son's birth began to return—my evil spouse, the fair haired and gentle doctor, my father, and a bucket full of other others. So many names from which to choose, and yet some—especially one—I would never consider as they were only acronyms for evil and pain. I wanted something to embody not the delivery but the deliverance of my baby boy into my hands.

Another hour of musing in my half sun-warmed room brought me a name to which I kept returning. I turned it over in my mind time and again. Zebadiah was my grandfather's name; a strong man, who had a strong faith. He'd dedicated his life to God's teachings. My grandmother had always called him a 'gift from Heaven." It was a perfect name—God has given, God's gift. Yes, God had given; and hope had given too, I added as an afterthought. Yes, the name fit and I set my choice as I looked down into the depths of my son's beautiful blue eyes.

"Zebadiah," I whispered. I leaned my face close and my eyes locked with his, as I hummed his new name like a sweet song. He cuddled in his blanket and turned to the sound, which melted my heart and made me sigh with the sweet bliss only a mother can feel. "Hello Zebadiah; welcome to your new life my precious little light, my little gift."

I kept cooing, singing, and dreaming until Helen interrupted my reverie. "Good morning Mother Esme," she giggled. She walked towards us and tilted her head to the side, while raising one eyebrow—just like Aunt Bess. "How are the two of you doing? Let me see and hold this beautiful young man."

Helen reached in to Zebadiah's bassinet and picked him up with the grace and wisdom of an experienced mother. She seemed to be in a dream world of her own. "Have you chosen a name?" she casted in my direction. Looking at my son she said, "Dear little baby boy, has your mother named you?" He seemed to understand her.

"Y-Yes," I quickly stuttered from behind her. "Although, not without some difficulty. I wanted it to symbolize everything that's happened, especially his delivery into this new life," I could feel a smile embrace my lips. "I choose Zebadiah—God has given, God's gift."

"Grandpa Platt?" she turned to look at me, the quizzical eyebrow arched again.

"Yes, suits him doesn't it? God and hope truly have given him to me. He's a gift from them." I clenched my fists in memory of what it had taken to get to this moment, but quickly released the thought to the wind where it belonged. I was happy now.

Helen didn't miss my moment of pain, but let it pass without mention. "Very well Zebadiah. Are the two of you ready for some visitors? I know two little children who are bursting to meet you." She laughed and shook her head at me with a wink, "Wade is over his fright, but still nervous. You gave him quite a stir when he found you on the porch."

We both laughed with a high pitch and two sets of eyes peeked around the bedroom door. "Is it okay now mama?" one of them called.

"Come in children, be careful, and don't get too close." She turned down the corner of the linen blanket to let them see the baby. "Meet your new cousin, Zebadiah." They looked in awe of him and started making silly faces like only children can. "Not too close, don't frighten him," Helen admonished. "Isn't he special? You two were this small—once! Now, go and do your chores. Doctor Evington will be here later to see the baby, and I'm sure he'll have a peppermint stick for both of you—if you're chores are done." They both scrambled from the room with a streak.

It went on with the next introduction going to Wade, hovering near the door. Helen was right; he did look nervous—nervous, but happy. He took and cradled Zebadiah like a practiced father, but still held concern in his eyes. I'm sure he was thinking about me as a single mother and my future—our future. Yet, I knew he didn't scrunch is brow with chastisement for my choices, but with genuine concern for our safety and wellbeing.

Helen and Wade excused themselves in short, and I found the excitement had left me strained and exhausted. I stretched across my bed before letting a light slumber steal me away. Before my eyes closed to the last thread of consciousness, I heard a soft noise from my little light and smiled with delight. So sweet I thought to myself; not recognizing the soft noise for a cough or anticipating what it was to bring.

**A/N: Chapter VI brings a sickening revelation on the price hope has charged for Esme's new found happiness. **


	6. The Price of Hope

**CHAPTER VI: The Price of Hope**

**(Esme's POV)**

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><p><em>Hope collects its price for happiness by taking that which means the most.<em>

Voices coming from the living room stirred me from a catnap. Apparently, late afternoon was settling in, as the sun showed tiny dust specks hanging in the air with its last threads of light. I could identify the people I heard by their sound. Dr. Evington was foremost with his booming vibrato—even louder than Wade's.

The doctor was unable to visit the day before as he was tending the injuries of a nearby farmer, Samuel Trundle, who'd fallen from his barn roof. It was understandable, but I was anxious for him to meet and check my new little bundle of joy.

Sliding off the crumpled sheets, rolled and tossed about as if in a fit of fury, I looked over at my little sleeping wonder and smiled. He'd never made a sound while I was resting. What a wonderful little baby!

My image in the old oval mirror wasn't perfect and my hair looked as if it had been whipped from a storm, but I brushed it lightly with my fingers and straightened my dress. A wash basin, fresh with water, waited for me and I gladly welcomed it on my face. I was at least presentable and that was enough for me.

Stretching like a lazy, sun-baked cat, I started to leave the room, but stole one final glance at my little gift's face. Strange, his skin held a slightly bluish tinge which I hadn't noticed before. My brow furrowed in brief concern. He must be cold I thought to myself and returned to his bassinet to gently tuck his little blanket around him. Smiling, I kissed my fingers and touched them to his forehead, not wanting to disturb his slumber. What a quiet, beautiful baby I sighed in delight.

"Good morning to you Dr. Evington," I softly called as I closed the door and stepped into the hallway leading to the living room. "How is Mr. Trundle?"

"Top of the morning to you Esme; Mr. Trundle is resting quietly and comfortably at home. Well, perhaps quietly isn't the best choice of words." He leaned into me as I entered the room, "Samuel isn't a cooperative patient, but his wife will see to it he recuperates." He chortled at his own joke; but, knowing Mrs. Trundle, Samuel would be bound to his bed by only her glare and pointed finger. She was a demanding, God fearing woman, who was a force of nature if need be.

Dr. Evington continued, "And how are you feeling? Any problems, difficulties? Have you been resting?"

I gave a positive nod to the question about resting and said, "No problems so far." He stole a glance toward Helen for confirmation. Anxious I pressed, "Would you like to meet Zebadiah?"

His response was a deep grunt. "Impatient aren't we? Very well, by all means baby first; of course I would love to meet the wonderful new addition to your life. Lead on my lady; let's have a look."

I led the doctor back down the narrow hallway and to my bedroom door. I could hear Zebadiah making a light sound on the other side and gently turned the wobbly knob as not to startle him. His sounds were odd to my ears, but I'd heard them before and they didn't frighten me. I was too overjoyed to show the doctor my new baby.

Since the room was dim, I swept across the short distance and turned the handle on an oil lamp resting by my bed—casting shadows in all directions. There was another on the bureau and I turned it as well. The two lights were enough to adequately show the entire room, and I smiled as we both walked to the bassinet.

Dr. Evington's mouth—which had held a broad smile—immediately drew into a straight, pressed line and his head tilted to the side. I picked up my little miracle and turned, cradling him, to face the doctor with confusion. Had I missed something? Why did the doctor look suddenly apprehensive—or was it concerned? Zebadiah still had the tint to his skin, perhaps a bit deeper even, but my internal concern was repressed as I proudly held my son for his scrutiny.

The doctor's open arms received Zebadiah and he held him for several minutes before gently laying him on my bed along with the worn black bag he'd been carrying. "Esme, how long has he had this color?" he asked seemingly deep in thought. His voice had a slight edge to it, and he looked about the room, as if searching for something, returning his attention once again to my son.

"I noticed it only a short while ago, just before I first spoke to you today; but he's simply cold. The room on this end of the house tends to be a bit damp." I bobbled my head in agreement to my own declaration.

The doctor drew in a deep breath and started removing instruments from his bag, crossing his arms several times as if in deep thought. He did a number of things to check Zebadiah, while making sounds and mumbling to himself. The entire process was unnerving and I started feeling the edge of worry brush me. "Is everything okay? Is something wrong doctor?" I finally inquired.

"Esme, has he cried much or made any unusual sounds?" he asked.

"No," I started but stopped myself in mid sentence. I thought about it for a moment and remembered the sound he'd made the day before. Zebadiah had repeated the sound several times since then; but, again, it hadn't alarmed me.

"He doesn't cry much and sleeps a great deal, which makes him such a wonderful baby," I started again, still convinving myself. "He's made some sounds which were somewhat like a gurgle or a cough, but it's just his way of cooing to his mommy. He has such a quiet little voice. Isn't he simply perfect?" I finished and looked up to a face so dreadful it punched a hole in my heart.

"Why are you asking me such things?" I said as my lips twitched in protest to the question they formed.

The doctor, his mouth still in a line, despondently blinked at me and looked away. He finally wrapped Zebadiah's blanket around his small body and returned him to his bassinet. "Can we talk in the other room?" the doctor said while gathering and repacking his goods. I could hear him sigh several times. He never took his eyes off Zebadiah, slightly shaking his head and frowning again, as we left the room to rejoin Helen and Wade.

Helen, immediately alarmed when she saw the doctor's face, was on her feet in an instant. "Doctor? Is something wrong? Dr. Evington I know that face. What?" Helen was a very intuitive woman.

Drawing in a deep breath and loudly expelling it in one whoosh, the doctor settled himself before beginning. "I don't know how to say it with any gentility. Babies are such beautiful gifts." The doctor stopped and steadied himself. "I've been a doctor for more decades than I care to count, and I can't explain why these things happen to certain babies." The doctor was visibly warring with himself.

"Esme," he sighed, turning towards me but not looking at me.

"What do you mean by 'these things' doctor?" I asked in a small voice. His continued down cast eyes and pained face were enough to force the bottom of my world to give way and the pits of Hell to open. I staggered when his gaze finally met mine—gripping the nearby chair for support.

Again I deliberately asked, "Doctor, what exactly do you mean—can't explain? There's nothing wrong with my son! He's perfect. What are you saying?" I found my shallow, modest voice slowly rising an octave with each word. My fingers were nearly ripping the soft yielding material at my fingertips by the time I'd finished.

"Esme," he said again, with both compassion and horror on his craggy face, "Zebadiah has a developing condition, for which even to today's medicine doesn't have an exact definition. It's a lung condition which begins to exhibit symptoms within the first days after birth—some sooner, some later. Some doctors feel it's due to an infection introduced through the mother at birth, others through immediate contact with something in the outside environment, but it's all theory—we just don't understand." Dr. Evington stopped to take a breath.

"It mimics pneumonia and we are certain it is bacterial in nature," he continued, "The baby's lungs slowly fill with fluid which continues to collect. The pressing fluid, which the tiny body has no way of removing, causes swelling. Soon the baby can't draw enough oxygen through the fluid or the resulting inflammation—hence the developing bluish color. The fluid will continue to accumulate and the condition progress until its body is completely oxygen deprived. The baby will slowly stifle. There's no way to stop it, there's no way to medically remove or reduce the fluid by modern medicine and no medication to treat it. It's a quickly progressive condition for which we have no pinpoint culprit and no effective treatment—no cure."

The doctor stopped his monologue and looked at Helen and Wade. "I checked Zebadiah several times, hoping I was wrong, praying to God I was wrong, but I can't overlook the evidence directing my diagnosis." He paused and turned back to me with a reserved voice, "There's nothing to stop the progression of Zebadiah's condition."

I stood nailed in place with my eyes fixed on nothing. Dr. Evington hung his head in defeat, shaking it slowly from side to side. I heard him sniff and when he looked back up he had tears in his eyes. "I'm so sorry Esme, there's nothing I can do."

Helen was clutching Wade and I could hear her restrained sobs, but my world was spinning. There was nothing wrong with my baby. Nothing! I slowly moved my mouth until I could speak, "You're wrong. There's nothing wrong with my baby! Don't come near me; don't ever touch my baby again. You're wrong!" I bolted for my bedroom and slammed the door behind me.

The loud sound should have startled Zebadiah, but he didn't cry; he only made the same strange gurgled sound. I pushed the sound aside; there's nothing wrong with my baby I thought over and over again. It wasn't possible! We'd come so far; it wasn't possible! No, my baby was perfect.

I sat down shaking with contempt in the worn oak rocker, the only chair in the room, and listened to its rungs creak against the floor. No one tried to talk to or console me. I was alone with my pain. Nightmares began to pass before my eyes—one after another the scenes played out. Were they real? What was real anymore? My arms found their way around my body in a solid embrace and my head dropped in confusion—or was it resignation? The rhythm of the rocker kept cadence to my thoughts and I slowly drifted from reality.

There were intermittent muffled sounds and hushed words, as if from inside a tunnel—'worse , feed, cope with, should we, how long, let alone.' The words and voices were a jumble from different sources. Were they meant for me? The nightmares behind my eyes persisted and still the rocker kept cadence. I was hollow and whole at the same time, both present and removed.

I entered an ugly void and I no longer cared. My soul was alienated and I floated on a cloud of ugly delusion. I didn't want to feel, didn't want to identify with the body in the chair. The nightmares, seemingly enjoying my pain and confusion, beckoned me further into the void and I wanted them to take me.

How long this went on was an unknown. What reason did I have for caring about time? I found I was arguing with myself, allowing my spiral into the abyss only to reluctantly clutch in the dark for a handhold to reality. What, however, had reality ever done for me? I let my fingers slip from the handholds with each discovery of their existence only to try again. I was at odds with myself.

I shook my head inside my nightmare as if to clear it. I had to return; there was some reason I needed to return, but return to what? Reality held pain, the nightmares held pain; where was I to turn? I was again lost.

Some distant part of me knew time had passed and knew it was early morning; the sun's rays touching my face. Touching my face, my body? It was like a safety line cast in the dark. 'Morning,' reality whispered into my ear and tried to draw me from the void. Morning?

A sound from somewhere in the room caught my attention, and it offered me another anchor from which to pull back from my delusions. Piece by piece and bone by bone I began my return. Why? I drew in a shaky breath and shook my head again, this time physically.

As I slowly crept back into my body, I found myself still rooted in the rocking chair—my arms still wrapped around my body, not letting go. My eyes moved about the room in an attempt to recognize something, anything. The door from the void was slowly opening and I tried to let the memories return. I broke and halted all thoughts as my eyes fell on an object near the bed—a bassinet.

Why was this in the room? Who put this in the room? I let my arms fall and staggered to my feet, cautiously drawing myself across the floor towards the offensive object. Slowly and watchfully with held breath, I edged closer until I touched its smooth edge and peered inside. Reality instantly crashed through my soul and I recoiled, turning my head away from the sight before me. All the memories, all the feelings came back at once in wave after wave of pain. It took several moments before I looked again; but I forced myself and saw what was inside the tiny bed. Reality.

Zebadiah lay unmoving, far bluer than before, quietly wheezing—his eyes fixed but open. My God, why had this been done to me? What did I do? I stood there rocking on my heels, restraining the scream which wanted to escape. Why?

I reached in and gracefully swept my baby into my hungry arms. He was so beautiful, so perfect. Gradually and sweetly I danced with him cradled to my chest and we returned to the rocker. It was there we'd sit—waiting with me humming and rocking. The rocker once again keeping cadence. What evil was behind this?

Slowly Zebadiah closed his eyes to sleep. Somehow I knew he'd slumber in my arms one last time, and I held him to my heart. Silent tears fell and I sang a lullaby to his oblivion.

I suddenly came to realize, while letting my thoughts drift, why this was happening. I had hoped, like others before me, for a better future, a better tomorrow. I had bargained with hope and hope was extracting its cost from my arms. It was hope; hope did this, hope caused this. Hope was the culprit. Hope was taking my son because I had to pay a price for my tomorrow.

We rocked and cuddled until I my little light slumbered into Heaven. Hope was evil.

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><p><strong>AN: Chapter VII brings Esme to the precipice of emotional unbalance. Her world is shattered, tipping her over the edge with a final laugh from hope.**

_**Please review. Your constructive thoughts and opinions are welcome and encouraging. Happy reading!**_


	7. Welcomed Oblivion

**CHAPTER VII: Welcomed Oblivion**

**(Esme's POV)**

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><p><em>Hope is a predator. Its lies are an enticement, before extracting payment and delivering a final blow. Never trust hope.<em>

I gave hope a second chance; and, in turn, it mocked me by taking my baby boy—my little light. Dr. Evington couldn't pin an exact culprit for his condition, saying "these things happen sometimes," but I know hope caused it. My little light was conceived through the rage of a madman, my demon, but he was my reason to continue and my reason to let hope back into my life. I had welcomed hope with his birth, only to now be renewed in my disgust and distrust for hope's fabrications and golden visions.

Three days, he was barely three days old. Why would hope strip me of my baby! Why would God abandon me? My inner voice scoffed at me, 'Was he really yours? Did you deserve him?' Perhaps it was instead hope scoffing at me.

I couldn't stand another heartbreak, another loss, or another day. I didn't care anymore. Better I damn my soul to eternal flames by ending this life now! Was that it, the answer? Would an end bring relief to the suffering, the emptiness? Would an end stop the bottomless, consuming pain I felt? Was leaving the damnation of this world by my hand a door into another world of torture where I'd never see my little light again? I was taught such thoughts and actions were evil, but damn the thoughts! I was alone and lost once again.

Perhaps hope was never meant to bring blessings to my world as it did for others. Perhaps my hope only offered me sinister invitations and possibilities to my final downfall, feeding on me and enjoying the entertainment.

Slowly I stood from the rocker, my still worn night clothes catching on a splinter, and retraced my steps to the bassinet, laying down the now unmoving child in my arms. My lips brushed against his velvet cheek as I leaned in for one last kiss. A single tear from my suffering fell on to his still face and I watched it disappear into the folds of the blanket. "Goodbye for now my little light. Mommy loves you and hopes to see you soon."

I backed away with control and turned towards the welcoming bedroom door. My hand brushed once across the Bible resting on the bed stand. I'd brought it with me from my days of abuse. Days of abuse—like they were a thing of my past. My fingers sealed around the Bible's edge and I clutched it to my chest, taking it with me.

I could hear Helen and Wade in the kitchen, talking in hushed whispers—probably about me, as I crept towards the front door. If I was quiet, they'd never notice my exit; for if they did, they'd surely stop me. I had to leave. I had to move onto another life. Hope had forced me to find a way to end my pain and I wasn't straying.

My hand gently turned the cold door knob and with one last look back the hallway, I stepped onto a path which would have me soon see my little light—perhaps. The steps were at first deliberate and not hasty, but my thoughts began to run in front of me and I soon found I was giving them chase.

I began to run faster, tripping and flailing, with no determined direction—never feeling the stones that pierced my bare feet or the brambles which clawed at my body. Blindly rushing, I let my grief and thoughts spur me forward, wanting to run far away into another life.

I ran for an eternity; through the edges of the glade and into a meadow. I stumbled through its high grass and trampled its delicate violets with my rampage. The more I thought, the faster I ran. At the edge of the meadow stood a forest of whispering legends, standing solid and firm—pines which looked older than time. I ran violently through them, towards nothing and everything, as I flashed my life through my mind.

My life! My life meant nothing, I was tainted. I was a silly girl who had grand dreams of being the perfect wife and mother only to become the pummeled slave of an addicted, raping monster, who never missed or fully remembered me, and now the mother of a baby killed by hope.

Decades before my religious beliefs and practices had been instilled in me by my parents and grandparents. I knew right from wrong and I respected their teachings, wondering how they would now view me. As the wind met my face, I glanced at the Bible resting in my scraped hand and noticed, for the first time in a long time, the writing. Inscribed on the leather cover in gold leaf—_Esme, Our Precious Daughter_. 'Precious,' I sighed into the damp air and shuddered at the memory it dredged to the surface.

Inside its cover I had placed a loosened thread from my little light's sweater—made by me with pure love and hope for his future. It was made with hope for him. He died in my arms never wearing that sweater. Hope was death, hope was pain. There had been hope in my heart for my little light, but hope had only brought death.

No, I was now precious to no one. Beaten and submissive to a monster, mother to a dead child, my life was full of isolation and pain. Bile rose in my throat and fresh tears streaked a path down my cheeks, as I continued to run—heaving from my thoughts and memories.

My parents had hoped for my future, and hope had brought them death. I had hoped for a release from my tormentor and a new future for my baby, and hope had taken him away. Why should I care to embrace and trust a murderer any longer? Hope was vile.

I stopped for a brief moment and looked around; the pain from the scrapes and bruises of my flight barely noticeable. Steadying my breaths, I began to think for a moment. Perhaps matters were not as bleak as I thought—sad and tragic, but not bleak. I'd survived so much pain in my life and moved on. Was this just another chapter to strengthen me? I was young and still had life. I hesitated and hope gnawed at my spirit. Regretting my self-destructive and despaired thoughts, I faltered for a moment—a heartbeat—and reconsidered my choices to rid myself of hope, of this world. It was only a heartbeat though, because hope was a trickster and I had experienced its deceptions far too many times. Hope was not keeping me locked in its dungeon of lies for another second.

My thoughts were wild and I knew I wasn't meant to continue this life of anguish. I may never see my little light as I promised and be delivered into a Heavenly life for what I was about to do; but even the dark abyss was welcome to me, if it would rid me of hope. What did I do wrong? Why did I deserve this life?

Hope still pressed on and beckoned me to reason with it. There was always a tomorrow it chided. Tomorrow, shingled by a charlatan, and paraded on an 'always possibilities' advertisement. Hope was a fraud, a liar in this world and I knew it. I was soon to be free of its evil fetters.

I ran again until my legs couldn't be further spurred. As I slowed and stopped, my feet came to rest near a sharp precipice. The cliff wasn't exceptionally high, but it would do. I looked down, with labored breaths, into the jagged pit of loosened stones far below. The rocks were welcoming me—"Join us," they called, "we're here for you, waiting." My eyes also saw a small boy waving and calling to me, "Mommy, I'm here. I love you."

Soon the sounds of the forest were joining the chorus from behind me, urging me into the void. Do it, it won't hurt I felt from somewhere within me. It will be over and the next life will sing a new song—hope only wickedly laughed in the background. Even the distant winds beseeched my soul to end this miserable existence.

There were no goodbyes, no one crying for me, no one to miss me, no one to watch—save for the Bible still in my hand and my memories. I doubt anyone would even look for my body, save for a few hungry wolves. I was alone inside myself, abandoned by my own common sense and faith—confused, broken, and abused with no wish to further entertain hope. I had only the prodding voices around me as witness to my final pain and decision. They, the mocking stones, were waiting for me below. The little boy was waiting for his mommy. It was a jagged end to a shattered life and I was committed to quickly oblige them.

I raised my foot to dangle into nothingness, raising my arms in the hope I would waft away in peace. One final breath and I leaned into my destiny. As the air veiled and greeted my body, I was pulled by an unfathomable force. I felt myself descend into the hands of death and into a welcomed oblivion.

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><p><strong>AN: In Chapter VIII Carlisle discovers Esme's body in the hospital morgue. Seemingly deceased to the average human, Carlisle can hear her faintly beating heart. The vampire sensed doctor finds himself deciding Esme's immortality and rekindling feelings from decades before. **


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